Nightmares of a Streetsweeper
by Azure-Exile
Summary: Oneshot. The members of the Fourth Division, once, were respected as the angels of Seireitei and the saviors of lives. At some point this changed and, in a time of need, the janitor division was called upon to be angels once again. No pairings.


Nightmares of a Streetsweeper  
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By: Bloodmist-Exile  
Rating: **Teen** for some descriptive medical scenes  
Misc: Drama/ Angst  
Pairings: None  
Warning: Medical Scenes, Fourth Division bitterness  
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach.  
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My role is not a doctor, nor was it ever meant to be. In defense of the Fourth, the long explanation is that we are cooks, janitors, even street-sweepers all. The shorter explanation is that we are the logistics division. Our duties extend only slightly further than preforming the necessary tasks to keep Seireitei running.

The Fourth Division actually has quite a deep history. It was actually the second division formed chronologically and has only in the last three hundred years been renamed. That was how it was in the beginning – the First Division fought and the Second Division healed; there was not much more to the division. At that time, we were respected, revered even, as angels of healing and of life. We were the ones that would charge through fire, flames, and sulfur to save lives.

As the Gotei Thirteen grew, however, we became relics of a bygone era. Peace had conquered chaos and there were simply no more wounds to heal. Where once walked the angels of Seireitei, only silence remained.

There is no need for an idle division in the Gotei Thirteen and we were quickly assigned to cooking, cleaning, and other mundane chores by our former brothers, the First Division. That was when we ceased to be the medical division and became the medical AND logistics division. The outcry was immediate. Doctors, nurses, and medical specialists of all kinds protested the way that, after hundreds of years of dedicated and honorable service, they were being relegated into mere servants.

The First Division's answer was simple.

Once, the two divisions had been the greatest of allies, had fought and died side by side as equals, but those days were now past. The former Captain of the Fourth Division, the one that had protested the most powerfully and the most loudly, was executed by the Central Forty-Six for treason.

Obviously this was far before my time but Unohana-taicho told me that, after that day, there were no more protests. The Second – now Fourth – Division had become a division of janitors.

Slowly the old angels filtered out, most resigning from shame, and the new members filed in. A mere seventy years after the execution of our first Captain, Unohana Retsu, as the last angel still remaining among us, was elevated to the rank of Captain.

The Fourth Division, now, was a home for the unwanted. Students straight from the Academy, unsure of what division to choose, unskilled Shinigami, with nowhere else to turn, and burn-outs from different Divisions, seeking just the slightest solace; they all had a haven here. It didn't take much skill or effort to clean after all. The nature of our new duties were so time-consuming that barely any time was allotted for training in the healing arts. That, the First Division said whenever we complained, was an acceptable loss.

Of course, there was still the occasional injury but that was cared for easily enough. The injured Shinigami would get a bandage, a pat on the head, and a shove out the door. The most severe injuries seemed to come from the Eleventh Division but Unohana-taicho treated them flawlessly and they recovered quickly.

The old legends of angels on the battlefield had died with our first Captain and we found ourselves increasingly harassed by the other divisions. They didn't dare insult us in front of Unohana-taicho, as she could have destroyed them with a single hand, but when we were alone; they flocked around, like carrion for the kill.

It was not, and still is not, at all uncommon to see some rookie Eleventh Divisioner taunting a higher-ranking Fourth Division member; simply because the rookie thinks that, as a member of the Eleventh Division, it comes with the territory and because, suddenly, it looks to him like he IS someone.

We don't fight back though. How is it we could? The First Division has made it astonishingly clear that they, as bleeders and battlers, are so much more important and valued than we are, as we amount to simple servants.

Before the ryoka entered Soul Society, I don't think any of us had actually seen a death. Please don't misunderstand me; we were not naive enough to think that no one had ever perished in our halls. We were aware that people died, acutely aware; we just hadn't seen it. Simply, whenever it became undeniably clear that a patient was near death, he or she would be transferred, personally, by Unohana-taicho, to the last room in the last hall.

It was officially known as Room 12-D, as that was its given designation, but it was much more commonly called the Death Room. This was not so much to be morbid as it was the easiest way to identify the room. Simply, the soon-to-die would be taken to Room 12-D and Unohana-taicho would stay with them until they'd passed.

Our Captain bore the burden of all those deaths for us. We never asked this of her; nor, do I think, have we ever thanked her for it. Regardless, I could not be more grateful that she made an attempt to shield us, to shelter us, from this darker aspect of our duties. Though I would have disagreed with her at the time, I understand now that we really, truly, were not ready for what we were to see.

During the ryoka incident, at the time the first patient was admitted, I had just finished sweeping the streets directly before the medical wards. That was the only real custom left from the glory days of the division - unerring cleanliness. I had scarcely laid the broom down when a wild-eyed Fourteenth Seat burst headlong into the room, "Isane-fukutaicho!" she screamed, "There are two badly injured Shinigami in Emergency!"

I froze, indecision clouding my judgment immediately. Before I could move or react, Unohana-taicho had already followed the girl back out into the Emergency Rooms. It was my first trial as a doctor, and I'm ashamed to say that I failed. Horribly.

Though I hoped there would be no more, the casualties continued to trickle in throughout the day. Some were badly injured; others were not. Unohana-taicho took them all. She seemed on the verge of collapse; even as amazing as she was, she had a limit. Finally, after almost a day of nonstop healing, our unstoppable, unbeatable, undrainable Unohana-taicho hung her head, and lifted her hands in defeat."I..." she whispered hoarsely, "I have nothing more..."

The silence in the room was deafening.

When I finally recovered my voice and my senses, I yelled for everyone to take a patient. An immediate problem presented itself. Most of the Fourth Division only knew Academy-level healing techniques and some, some could not even do that. I told them to try their hardest. What else could I have said? What else could anyone have said?

I will never forget my first real patient. His charts indicated that he was from the Twelfth Division and his wounds were consistent with some sort of explosion. I could not help but feel a sharp, stinging hatred for the ryoka and their cruelty. It was only later that I would learn the truth about the man's wounds.

"What do we do, Isane-fukutaicho?" my partner yelled, his eyes looking easily as panicked as I, myself, felt. "What the hell do we do?"

I don't remember what I said, nor do I remember his reply. It seems all a confused blur of action, desperation, and blood. My clearest memory from that time is lurching away, after feeling the crushing lack of a pulse, and emptying the contents of my stomach into the nearest sink. I looked up into the mirror directly above and saw my pale face covered crimson with another Shinigami's blood.

It was then that I realized I did not belong there, that none of us belonged there. We were not the Fourth Division of antiquity – the Fourth Division that, now, existed only in Unohana-taicho's stories and memories. I was of the division of cleaners, not the division of angels.

I was nothing more than a mere street-sweeper that had been forced far, far over her head.

Somehow twelve hours of horror passed and I found my way to Unohana-taicho's quarters. Tearfully, I threw myself at her feet and begged her to forgive me for defiling her division. I was not strong enough, I said, fast enough, skilled enough; just simply not enough.

Silently, she helped me back onto my feet. I grimaced at the tears in her eyes, knowing that the division's failure had hurt her as much, if not more, than it had struck me. "Why did we come up lacking, Unohana-taicho?" I remember asking, desperate for an answer. My Captain's face fell and she replied in the weakest voice I have ever heard issue from her lips.

"There was a time when they had a choice." she said softly, every word echoing her exhaustion, "Janitors or angels. Servants or equals. They turned their backs on us, and now - now they suffer it."

The words rang true but still offered no solace. That night when, after an eternity of fitful tossing and turning, I finally fell asleep, my dreams were filled with the stuff of nightmares. Even now, no matter what I dream, be it ficus or fish-paste; I wake in a cold sweat.

Nightmares of a street-sweeper that, in the morning, may wake to find herself a doctor once again.  
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A/N: Hello everyone - Bloodmist here again with yet another fic about the Fourth Division.

I can't help it, I really do like them a lot. They're just so unexplored as a division, I think. It could just be me... This, though you already know, is a random little introspective based in first-person on Kotetsu Isane and her nightmares. I thought that this view of the Fourth Division was interesting and different and wanted to share it. This is also a further attempt to refine my writing style. At exactly 1900 words this is my shortest fic yet! (but not worst, I hope) Yay!

Anyway, on a personal note, I need the help of all you skilled writers out there. Strangely, I seem to be going through what I guess could be described as the writer's version of an existential crises. Whenever I read my own work, it seems dull, uninspired, trite, and predictable where, before, I still felt the emotion of what I wrote. Is this a normal progression for a new writer or have I just completely lost base? Am I just freaking out about nothing? If you think you could help I would really appreciate it. I'm sorry if I confused you but please try to understand... I'm pretty confused too.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me for that personal note and for not updating 'Be Good' in forever! I'm so sorry but I have no idea what's wrong!

This is my fourth fic; however, that is no excuse for it to suck. If it does, please don't hesitate to tell me.  
Please review, as all feedback is appreciated.

B-E: Still King of Annoyingly-long Author's Notes  
**(B-E: SKA-AN)**


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